


Twain

by Kemmasandi



Series: In Which Old Friends Get Up To Dodgy Tricks [2]
Category: Transformers: Prime
Genre: Fluff, Mild slash, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-25
Updated: 2013-01-25
Packaged: 2017-11-26 20:42:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,720
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/654213
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kemmasandi/pseuds/Kemmasandi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ratchet gets some much-needed recharge. Optimus helps out.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Twain

**Author's Note:**

> **Title:** Twain  
>  **Rating:** T. Extreme fluff, slight slash.  
>  **Wordcount:** 1739  
>  **Pairing:** Ratchet/Optimus
> 
> Apparently I write the best when it’s night and I’m supposed to be asleep and my sister’s off doing her nightshift work. Weird.

There were no mirrors in Autobot Outpost Omega One—not that Cybertronians had ever had much use for them. Ratchet aimed the semi-disassembled webcam at his optics, ignoring the duct tape which was all that kept the spiderwebbed mass of cables and lenses fixed within a casing now many sizes too small for it, and waited for the signal to reach the datapad in his free hand.

He wasn’t usually this self-conscious. Pit, he wasn’t usually self-conscious at all—he had far too many, much more important things to be worrying about.

The datapad took its sweet time in deciphering the human-made device’s wireless signal, and even longer to convert it into the correct visual file. The datapads were old; this one was probably nearing the end of its natural life. Ratchet had had to resort to frankensteining (as Miko referred to it, giggling as was her wont) human-created parts into a few of his tools lately, and vice versa—hence the webcam. 

An image, grainy and slightly oversaturated, flashed up on the datapad screen as it finished its conversion. Ratchet’s face, his optics still not quite back to Autobot-blue. 

He dialed open his vents and sighed heavily, sensors registering the wash of cool air into his internals. It did nothing effective to ease the strained, achy feeling in his processors, but he felt it as a small relief nevertheless. Giving one last look to the too-green image of his optics, he deleted the file and set the old datapad down, turning it off for the night.

It was just after two A.M by local standard, he estimated, resting a hand for the moment on the med-bay bunk. His watch shift would be ending soon.

Optimus had been reluctant to let him stand watch, so soon after his ordeal with the synth-en. Ratchet didn’t blame him. He needed to do something though, something to make up for what he’d done under the synth-en’s influence. Something to help. Optimus may have just been relieved to have him back relatively safe (although if having a massive hole ripped into one’s side was ‘safe’, then Ratchet despaired as to what it would take to be deemed ‘in danger’), but Ratchet knew he couldn’t forgive himself that easily. Using himself as a test subject—that was Academy-level stupid right there.

(That he had had no other alternative, well, that would make him want to sit down and cry if he let himself think about it.)

No, he was too busy for that. Work didn’t wait; he’d neglected it while he was under the synth-en’s influence, and then while he was recovering it’d piled up twice as fast. Law of the universe, that.

He had to force the hydraulics in his legs to move, he was so tired. No, not tired—shattered. Physically, he was fine. Repaired, in better shape than most of the others were, still topped up with self-repair nanites hard at work. Mentally… _hmm._ There was a disconnect somewhere between his processor and his neural net—he’d think about doing things, but his body wouldn’t act on it.

He should have listened to Optimus.

Ratchet frowned at the tools strewn across the bench. It took him several nanoseconds to find the code trees to reach out and pick one up—so many pistons and cables and joints to stretch, so many electrical impulses to send. It felt a little like being overcharged, thinking too fast for his old body to react to each thought and command. Odd, certainly annoying if he’d had the energy to spare.

Thumping footsteps sounded in the hallway, several tons of metal coming down on bare concrete. Ratchet turned, looking past his shoulder pauldron as Arcee strode into the bunker. The maker of the footsteps followed her—Optimus, emerging out of the dark hallway, looked towards Ratchet with a gentle glint in his optics.

“Ah,” Ratchet said, leaping to the first conclusion. He could still put two and two together, even if putting conscious thought to action was a bit difficult at the moment. “You came to check I hadn’t fallen apart. I don’t need a babysitter, you know.”

Optimus navigated through the cluttered, too-small medbay with practiced ease. “I am aware of that, old friend. However, your propensity for working overtime is well-documented,” he said, reaching out for Ratchet as soon as he came within arm’s length. Their fields were already tangled in each other, outer layers merged closely enough that Arcee smirked over her shoulder at Ratchet as she took up her usual station across the silo. 

Ratchet huffed, pretending to ignore it as he surreptitiously bumped her routine systems check up a few days. “I’d say we’re all working overtime these days. It’s necessary,” he pointed out, giving in with bad grace. If his voice was a little more acidic than normal, well, Optimus knew him well enough to recognise the exhaustion talking. 

The Prime gave him a tired smile, both servos on Ratchet’s shoulders pulling him closer, out of the medbay.

“True,” he rumbled soothingly, deliberately shifting his engine down a notch so that the background humming resonated at a pitch several notes lower. Most mechs found it soothing, and Ratchet was no different. He found he had to concentrate to keep more than a few of his subprocessors online.

He flared his field as he was guided into the hallway, too tired to push further. “And you can quit that too, Optimus, I’m not a sparkling to be lulled to recharge.”

“Well, there are other methods at my disposal,” Optimus said mildly, his field flickering in calm waves. “You do seem to prefer being given incentives to rest.”

“No overloads tonight,” Ratchet groused. “I’m too tired for that.” 

He exvented a heavy sigh. Whoever had designed this base with the only rooms suitable for beings of Cybertronian size so far apart needed to be sent back to architectural college. The hallway wasn’t long, but it always felt like too far to walk after a hard shift.

His quarters were the closest to the main command centre, close enough that he was never much more than fifteen seconds at a panicked run away in a technological emergency. They’d suffered in the scraplet infestation; most of the lights either flickered at an odd tempo or didn’t work at all. That was fine by Ratchet, who navigated as much by proximity scans as by actual sight. He pinged the door with his personal code, and it promptly stuttered open.

He looked back in surprise when Optimus’ comforting field followed him through the door. The mech himself wasn’t far behind, stepping into the darkness on Ratchet’s heels. 

Ratchet set his expression, fighting back a sudden tide of guilt. Optimus moved like he was as tired as Ratchet himself: heavy, stilted steps, his shoulders set with a stiffness not normally so pronounced. Oh, Ratchet doubted any of the others would have noticed, but they weren’t trained medics, none of them knew how a mech in optimal condition moved, and this—this was not a mech in optimal condition.

Ratchet huffed air, and caught Optimus by the shoulder, intending to drag him to the berth and _make_ the giant hypocrite rest, by Primus. He managed an aborted tug before Prime—with unfair coordination for such a worn-out mech—swooped down and pulled him into a sweet, gentle kiss. 

_Mmmmm._ Ratchet’s last spare subprocessor melted under the attention. His servo pushed lightly against Optimus’ shoulder, the other one coming to rest on blue hip fairings. Optimus’ own servos were wandering, one stroking down the back of Ratchet’s helm while the other drifted steadily down the outside of his arm. He slowly deepened the kiss, glossa languidly tracing across Ratchet’s bottom lip.

And that made Ratchet think, at last. He pulled back and fixed Optimus with a steady glare, the light from his optics reflecting off the silvered plates of the Prime’s face. “No overloads, I said.”

“Yes, I remember.” Optimus’ field shivered against his, frayed and dull now that he thought about it. “A kiss doesn’t have to go anywhere if you do not want it to. Call it a goodnight kiss, if you will.”

“A goodnight— Oh Primus, you softspark.” Ratchet chuckled, stepping back and looking down for a moment. Truth be told he wouldn’t have minded going a little further—but, well, his berth was looking really attractive right now, and not in the way it usually did when Optimus was in the room with him. “Good night, Optimus.”

Matching soft amusement rippled through Optimus’ field. “Good night, Ratchet.”

Neither of them made any move to break apart.

Ratchet broke first, a fit of shallow giggles bubbling up through his vocaliser as he headed towards his berth. The kiss had burned off all of his previous annoyance, and now everything just felt vaguely ridiculous. He deliberately pushed his field against Optimus’, knowing it would taste of acquiescent welcome.

“If you wanted to stay the night,” he said, “you only had to ask.”

“Truthfully I was debating it,” Optimus admitted, but he followed Ratchet across the room agreeably enough. “You do not mind?”

“Of course not. At least this way we’re both assured of getting some rest.” 

Ratchet’s berth had come out of the shuttle which had originally brought them to this backwater planet. That same shuttle had been almost completely recycled in order to build the base. The berths were old and not particularly well-made, but they were comfortable, and Ratchet’s was just big enough that the two of them could recharge on it at once. 

Ratchet settled himself on the padded surface, scooting back against the wall as Optimus laid down carefully, then reached out to him. The awkward shape of Ratchet’s back made it difficult for him to recharge on it; he usually lay face down instead. As it happened, Optimus had the perfect body for laying on. Ratchet arranged himself half on, half off, chest to chest with his hips and legs draping off to the side. The deep thrum of Optimus’ engine winding down played through their frames, beautifully soporific.

“Thank you,” Ratchet mumbled, in those moments before his systems at last sent him into full recharge. “’Probably needed this.”

Optimus, hands settling close on Ratchet’s back, made a soft murmur of assent.

\--++--++--++--


End file.
